


On Demand

by RobinSonnets



Category: DCU - Comicverse, Nightwing (Comic)
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 17:11:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinSonnets/pseuds/RobinSonnets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dick just wanted to visit Clark in Metropolis, but Lex Luthor had other plans. He still intended to defeat Superman, but this time he’s getting under Dick’s skin to do it. Kidnapping and zealous use of aphrodisiacs ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mix Stitch (Synph)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synph/gifts).



Lex Luthor has his fingers clutching Metropolis. While he plots in his office he can see the city twisting beneath him, needing him, and he thrives off that power. He watches the drones, mindless and insignificant, shuffle on the streets below him. Each one’s lives could be ruined with the flick of his wrist. This is his city and all are within his control; all, except for one damnable Superman. The grip on the arm of his chair tightens at the mere reminder of this  _trespassing_ alien’s presence  _tainting_  his own world.

     Lex sees everything that transpires in the gaze of his cameras systems, so extensive it would impress the Batman himself. He lets a tight smile sneak onto his face. Oh, yes, he saw  _everything_. Once the report of a visiting Nightwing graced his desk he doubled surveillance and stalked the feeds. He hadn’t known what he might find, and his patience ebbed with every fruitless night; but when that footage fell into his lap-oh, how sweet his victory shall be.

     The video played a robbery attempt thwarted by Superman and his guest vigilante. But it was the last few moments that had vexed him. Lex examined each possibility, like a passing harlot catching his eye or a stray erotic thought, yet none were viable. No, Superman’s lustful gaze focused, just for a second, on Nightwing. That was all Lex required.

     He snickered as he scrutinized Metropolis, and  _just_  hisMetropolis before too long. Lex never imagined he would desire a man to writhe in his hold, but this was someone he couldn’t stop fantasizing his hands all over. At last, Superman would be finished and all he needed was  _Nightwing_  well in hand.


	2. Whatever You Bind

His scrotum itched. Maybe, he thought, if he ignores it then it’ll go away. No, it became a pinch. Something was pinching the young man’s tender undercarriage. Squeezing his eyes further shut and willing himself to sleep did not relieve his southern pain nor lull him into unconsciousness. Groaning, he flung his left hand to tug at his briefs, yet instead grabbed a Kevlar-like fabric. He yawned, scolded himself for falling asleep in costume, and then adjusted his armored cup to cure that irritation. At least he’d remembered to take his sticks out.

Consciousness had begun to creep into his mind and that would not do. The man rolled onto his chest and, into a goose-down pillow, he thrust his masked face, attempting to smother himself into a coma. He pondered removing the mask, but at the reminder that it was blocking some of the unwanted morning light, he became rather fond of it. After sliding his gloved hands under the attempted-suicide pillow, he shoved the ends of it to his ears, sandwiching his head in a final attempt to sleep.

            Too late, his stomach growled, you’re either hungry or nauseous. Nothing cereal can’t fix was his inward reply. His defeated moan was muffled while he stretched his stiff muscles. Pausing in mid-roll of his ankles he had the startling suspicion that this wasn’t his pillow, for his pillow wasn’t filled with bird feathers and didn’t smell like lavender; perhaps, he dared, this wasn’t his bed. His pulse quickened when he narrowed down his list of possible locations to three: This wasn’t the Manor because Bruce wasn’t telling him to let go. Not Tim’s place considering there wasn’t the smell of brewing coffee or Tim’s shampoo. It was neither Jason nor Damian’s beds since he wasn’t bleeding or bound. He ruled out Roy’s due to the lacking redhead on top of him. And it couldn’t be Clark’s bedroom as he wasn’t in heaven and there was no unexplained scent of sunshine. That left a hotel room, that one girl’s flat above the video rental by City Hall he promised to call, or  _other_.

            “I trust you slept well,  _Nightwing_ ,” a husky voice whispered. Part of him hoped that girl from option two was a heavy smoker and had a hero fetish. “Come now,” it chided, “no good morning?”

Please, please, please be number two, he begged in silence.

“Well that is a pity. I even made breakfast.”

Nope, not moving, he protested, and if he just ignores it maybe it’ll go away. Minutes crawled past with a stillness bearing on his shoulders more than Batman’s hands ever could.

The voice sighed. “Alright, I admit I lied about breakfast. But today does promise to be a good day. For  _me_ , at any rate.” Quiet again, as if the man playing opossum missed his cue. “If you refuse to respond to me then perhaps a pleading _Superman_  will motivate you?”

            He nudged his left hand between his hip and the bed, slid it over his twice itching groin, and scratched. Dick whined, “Well, fuck.”

            “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.” The conceited timbre told otherwise.

            Yesterday was the asshole in a car that decided not to pay attention and slammed into the back of his memory. Dick remembered hitching a ride on Clark and was going back to the apartment after watching, in a stupor, Superman stop a six car accident. He cursed himself for looking like an idiot and wasting a chance to impress the superhero.

He urged himself to focus. They were sidetracked by another emergency. Something about an abandoned building complex. Or was it the docks? His radiation readings kept rising. A damp room, glass on the floor. Superman told him not to worry… _Clark_ told him not to worry. A flash of emerald. Clark fell to his knees. Rushed to him. Someone yelled at him to escape, to leave Clark. The memories surfacing brought a headache, but he forced himself to keep going. Leave Clark? Never, he would have never left him. The hot, slick feeling of blood running down his neck. The last thing he recalled was the glint off of some laughing bald-

             _Lex Luthor_.                                     

            The heart in Dick’s chest wasn’t racing so much as setting an Olympic record. With stealth he cracked his eyes open and dug his left gauntlet against his pelvis to feel for any remaining equipment in the compartments. Nothing: No gas capsules, pellets, tracers, or wing-dings. He grimaced and gripped the mattress, readying himself to spring. Dick lifted his head, inhaled a calming breath, and held it. He exhaled and thrust himself into a corkscrew over the bed’s side. Midair he brushed his boots together in vain, knowing there wouldn’t be anything left in those pockets either. As he landed into a crouch his fears were confirmed.

            Dick’s eyes fluttered in blinding light glaring through a floor length window across the austere room. “I said you could have bought me dinner first.” His throat choked. Lex  _Luthor_ might know his real identity. After checking his mask he didn’t think that it had been removed, but somehow that frightened him more.

            There was the muffled clink of ice dropping into a glass and then a liquid being poured. “Stop fretting. I don’t know who you are… _yet._ ”

And that was true. Despite other questionable acts on his part, Lex was a man of principle. He wouldn’t feel superior in breaking an unconscious  _hero_ ; that word snarled his lips. How he loathed that label “ _villain_.” “Evil genius” he could temper, but villain made those circus clowns feel so  _righteous_. It was a matter of perspective. Good was subjective; although it seemed the version that mattered was determined by a cult of captious buffoons who couldn’t fathom a fashionable sense if it struck between their eyes. Lex breathed through tight lips; but this would soon change, he calmed himself, starting with  _Nightwing_.

No, he hadn’t taken off that comical mask due to Lex’s yearning for something with greater satisfaction. Nightwing would take it off himself. Because he wanted to. Because he couldn’t help but obey Lex’s  _demands_. And Superman would watch, petrified, as his lascivious desire surrendered himself.

He smiled; that was twice this week and he broke his personal record. “And even if I had taken you to the best restaurant, served you the most expensive wine, and gave you the most romantic night of your  _pathetic_ life, you couldn’t remember it now. I was assured my memory wipe was successful.”

Dick had assumed one person could sound that pompous, however Damian was in Gotham. Everything sounded like Luthor was standing beside him and he hadn’t found any speakers or cameras. “What do you want, Luthor?” He was half-listening as he studied his prison further.

He stood with his back to the longer, forget-me-not colored wall of the room. There wasn’t anything but the king sized, four-poster bed dominating the center of the hardwood floor and a window overlooking a sunny downtown Metropolis. He considered leaping through that glass, but with no grappling hook it was suicide and, considering his captor, it was unbreakable. An outline of a doorway was engraved on the right-hand wall except there was no knob or keypad. No visible vents, cameras, or screens, yet he knew he was in the center ring. There was nothing to use as a weapon, save suffocating someone with that pillow or wielding a bed post like a sword.

Dick hadn’t felt this exposed since he caught Clark eyeing him and remembered his x-ray vision. A hiss behind made him face a shimmering, fading wall; a hologram. Sipping brandy, Lex stood three feet from him behind a spotless glass wall. The arrogant man, leaning on the arm of a leather chair, raised his glass. He wore a white three-piece suit, a lilac silk tie, shoes polished to perfection, a cocksure aura, and Dick wanted nothing but to take that glass and shove it down his throat. He didn’t know why he felt this angry. It wasn’t like he’d never been kidnapped before. He’d blame it on what Lex drugged him with, that Clark had been attacked, that fight with Bruce a week ago, and then a combination of all three.

 “I want  _you_.” Lex took another sip, lifting his chin to stare down his nose. “Oh, look,” he feigned shock, “I have you.”

Dick straightened his posture and strode to within inches of the glass, locking eyes with Lex; he felt the pulse of whatever Luthor managed to defy nature and charge it with. “I can see the future in that  _crystal ball_ -head of yours-“

“ _Don’t_ insult me,” he interjected, clutching the chair’s arm.

“-And it’s just a matter of time before Superman shows up. So why don’t you finish your drink and let me go?”

Lex did finish his drink, set the empty glass on the seat, and stood. He sauntered to the barrier, towering over Dick. Pinching his thumb to his pinky finger, he raised the remaining three before the other’s face. “One,  _never_ ridicule me.” He lowered his ring finger. “Two, I am  _aware_  that super- _freak_  will attempt to rescue you. He will fail.” Next, the index finger went, leaving his middle lifted. “Lastly, your  _detective_  skills need work because it’s obvious that  _you_  don’t give orders.  _I_ do. Is that clear,  _Nightwing_?”

Lex clasped both hands behind him, glaring at the withering eyes below. Neither wanted to break the tension so Dick’s stomach did the honors with a deafening rumble. Its outrageousness left Dick staring in horrid embarrassment at his stomach and Lex’s eyebrows high on his forehead. The abashed vigilante spun on his heel and retreated to the bedside, hiding his face in a palm. That was so  _uncool_ , he criticized his abdomen. However, that he cared about his appearance in front of the super-villain annoyed him more.

Luthor tugged on his collar and smoothed his jacket. “With that I’m afraid our time is up. I have an appointment to keep.” He noticed Dick sitting on the mattress and his attempts to scowl with his chin resting in a propped hand. He tried to sound helpful with a pointed look at Dick’s stomach, “Do try not to starve.”

“Bite me, Skeletor.” Once Dick saw him turn, he collapsed backward into the silky comforter.

“Maybe later,” Lex quipped over his shoulder. This was going to be  _quite_ entertaining.


	3. Rejoice at My Calamity

The staccato clack of heels upon the polished hardwood leapt from wall to wall like the bored hero in a glass cage had during the man’s absence. A poised, puissant pace carried him beside a mahogany armchair cradling a drinking glass-a glass forgotten, sweating and sinking into the wrinkled leather throne upon which it had been abandoned. There it waited for happenstance, a diaphanous sentinel as translucent as the holographic wall through which this predator watched his prey. The distracted man’s jacket was cast across the chair’s awaiting arms, burying the sentry beneath a shadow that promised a further damnation of unremembered fate.

Lex rolled his unbuttoned shirt cuffs to his elbows while studying the absurdity before him. A pair of boots lay heaped on the floor at the bed’s side where they were kicked free of their owner. Nightwing, barefooted, stood atop the disheveled comforter and grappled an ornate bed post, his spine contorted, hands gripping, legs quivering, and muscles taut to snap it off its base. He would have thought it sensuous if comparing this Police Academy reject to professional ballet was not nauseating. After adjusting his waistcoat, he dissolved the projection and allowed himself to be seen. The imprisoned vigilante bound across the springy mattress to another column and doubled his efforts while ignoring his observer. This unspoken power war waged until one of them - and it wasn’t he who straddled a wooden pillar - became impatient.

“Struggle all you want but I assure you that bed’s withstood much more.”

Nightwing released the molested post and flexed his cramping hands. He hated to agree, in part because it was defeat and because the implication disturbed, but the frame hadn’t creaked or splintered. Kicking out his legs, he dropped onto the bed’s edge and bounced as the springs settled. Avoiding the man proved impossible so he huffed, rested his forearms atop his thighs, and met his gaze. As time passed his initial anger fell from his thoughts like sand in an hourglass and he dealt with the boredom between capture and rescue. It was a waiting game. He might as well enjoy it.

“Welcome back, Mr. Clean.”

Lex ground his teeth, resisting the urge to massage the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t the jest at his unwanted hairstyle but that he had been compared to a fictional albino known for sanitation and citrus smell. His skin was burnt umber, at least - it was anything but white, no matter how one determined his heritage.

“Was there something wrong with the eggs benedict I sent you?” He referenced the untouched crystal dishware stacked by the cell’s door.

Dick’s bones popped as he bent his left elbow behind his head. Constricting his voice to its depths, he mimicked the bass and rumble of Luthor’s own. “Nothing was wrong. It’s just that cereal is more agreeable to my palette.”

“I give you the finest culinary experience and you want cereal.” Lex watched Nightwing’s stretching routine for a moment before adding, “Fine, tell me what you want. I can’t have you starving. Imagine how poorly that’d reflect on me.”

“And your other failed grabs at power don’t? But since you asked, I’d like some Bat Flakes.” The looseness flooding through his sore skin wasn’t as satisfying as the suppressed frown peeking past his jail keeper’s pompous veil.

“I don’t think I have that.”

“Alright, how about Super O’s?”

“You really expect me to have that diabetes-laced publicity stunt?”

“You really expect me to believe that you’ve finally beaten Superman?” Dick felt irritation radiating through the dividing, pulsating glass and an asymmetrical smirk tweak his cheek. Ducking his head to glance at his toes on the chilled floor, he peeled the smugness from his face: unspoken taunts are provoking. His eyes, although behind a domino mask, met a permeable stare. “Any Nightwing Crunch?”

“Are they selling that to children?”

“No, but I’m working on it.” That earned a snort from Luthor. Dick grinned like the Cheshire cat. He relaxed onto the sheets, propped himself on his left arm, and flung his right across his waist. “You ever consider modeling? Because your face would go so well on the box. The money’s pretty good, too.”

Lex picked at lint he imagined had adoration for a god to have clung to him. “Should my infinitely deep pockets ever run out, you’ll be the first I call. Would you be interested in eating Luthor Bran?” Silence from the chatty Gothamite surprised him out of preening.

“Do you really have Luthor Bran?”

“No.” He tugged on his vest. “But I’m working on it.” Nightwing’s single, stifled laugh and shaking, midnight haired head eased the tension in Lex’s back. Having total control and plans fulfilling themselves as he banters with his new plaything allowed premature endorphin chemicals to flourish. As his prisoner raised a hand in mock surrender, he believed that this day may be his last of fighting for humanity’s autonomy from the menace known as Superman. Perhaps the ignorant masses would awaken from their delirious comas those super jokes had placed them in and realize they were better under someone human; for example, someone like himself. He suspected the alien was telepathic: Superman’s ability to appear when thought of was supernatural and could not stop Luthor’s gaze from diverting to the unnatural sight of a humanoid flying toward the window.

“I knew you were full of something.” Dick ensconced his teal-striped fingertips, catching that backwards glance. He turned and mumbled, “Didn’t think it’d be fiber, though. But it does explain a lot.”

Superman hovered outside, basking in the slithering sun’s rays which slid their tendrils through the glass and steel of downtown Metropolis. Although his cape snapped about his heels and his curled forelock writhed in the wind, his gaze was firm. Nightwing hopped to his bare feet and vaulted over the bed. It was a moment of softness as Superman and Nightwing crumbled to Clark and Dick while the latter traipsed nearer.

Clark let himself sink to eye level. “What has he done to you?” The presumption did not escape anyone’s ears nor did the understanding that Lex could hear a whisper.

Dick’s eyes rolled; an appreciated, but failed attempt to ease the stress. “Nothing. But, he did let slip that he’s got a terribly named cereal.”

His humor fizzled. He tried another joke, but it wasn’t heard as Clark and Lex menaced one another. Dick sighed and Clark knew that sound: It spoke of confidence in him, of trust, of nagging to ease his fear of failure, and of a yearning hollow under white eyelets that surfaced when Dick absorbed every inch of Clark out of fear that this might be their last. The reach of two beryl fingers toward a man they caressed awake and in dreams was halted by a cough.

“Please, Nightwing. Don’t smudge the glass.”

Masseters twitching, Dick dropped the arrant hand to his side.

“I’m here.” Superman’s eyes promised what they could not. “What now?”

“Watch.” His audacity rose Dick’s hackles. A soft click echoed and compressed air screamed. Lex silenced communications between the heroes. Before questions could be asked, he answered, “He can’t hear us. It’s just you and me.”

“Stop this.”

Lex’s disinterested eyes followed the imprisoned hero’s scouring for the intoxication’s source. “You’re in no position to give orders. Unless, that is, you’re willing to meet my requests?”

“I can’t agree if I don’t know what they are.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he murmured. There were two locations from where the contaminant seeped - a blatant plant in the floor to engross Nightwing and the second in the ceiling. “I’ll be brief: Destroy the Justice League.”

In another situation, Clark might have laughed. “I can’t do that.”

Lex expected that answer and knew the next. He could have been precise to conserve time, but he wanted to hear those words. This was a chess game played by a master against a child. With no one to guide him, Superman’s skills were subpar but he played with grace. One’s victory was never satisfying if the defeated didn’t know, didn’t see his impending loss. Lex suggested the fateful path, implying moves and thoughts which served his purpose. He assured a question would lead to a dooming answer and that he watched the dawning surrender encroach onto his nemesis’ face.

“Why can’t you?” His tone quiet and reserved, enunciating to pry the man of steel’s ears, he asked, “Are the others missing? Is there no one home?” There it was: the hardening depths, the guarded understanding that he was no knight, no rook on the board, but a desperate king about to be checked by his own pawn. “That’s right. How did you think a cancerous, dark matter devouring life form would just appear in space?”

Meanwhile Nightwing’s hurried, noiseless movements danced between them like a silent ballet. He’d discovered the vent in the cracks of the floorboards. Springing to the bed, he hyperswiped over it and snagged a plush pillow. He then landed and then raced to clog the hissing vent with the cushion. The air was syrupy, his head felt light, and a covered mouth didn’t stopping the airborne venom from coating his lungs with a saccharine taste. His muted cage remained detached from the world; unheard, but not unnoticed. His floating savior stared at him as he stood, the useless pillow sagging in his grip. He returned to the bed’s edge facing Clark and sat clutching the ineffective fluffy blockade between spread knees. Stopping the influx of what was in the room was impossible. To breathe for one moment, to hold for six, to exhale for three, and to repeat was his plan to slow the coursing chemicals. It was a compound he knew from the slums and back alley bars, from the petty criminals and rapists, and one he thought below Luthor. He would make an undetectable drug noticeable, however. Dick shook his head to clear the mental haze and gave a cheeky thumb up despite a shrill drone in his ears.

Lex hummed. “Startlingly quick, isn’t it? I wasn’t going to bother testing this on lab rats, but why waste a perfect opportunity?”

“I need more time,” Superman urged. “Lex, -“

“It’s an aerosol mixture of several drugs -“

“I can’t just decide this on my own,” his voice notched louder at each ignored syllable.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of them: Alkyl nitrates, yohimbine, -“

“Let him go. He’s –“

“Bremalanotine, and benzodiazepine – Known more commonly as roofies. The last was my idea-“

Clark punched the window but it didn’t shatter. “Listen to me!”

Lex’s head shook. “I am listening. You’re just not saying anything. If you stall any longer I’ll preoccupy Aquaman, too. Besides, what could he do, beach a whale? Come, now.” He rested his hands in his pockets and began to stroll the wall’s length. “Can you give me what I want or not?”

Clark’s sight traced Lex’s path and his actions on a wall inlayed panel, but he did not see. He was lost among the pieces of this mental chess board, struggling to find a solution. Every move left his allies vulnerable or Lex at an advantage. There was no Batman to strategize, no Wonder Woman to act as a sounding board, and no Lantern to delve into the creative. There was no Nightwing to fight beside – he was for whom Clark ravaged his mind to save.

His eyes saw the cloudy air inside Dick’s cage began to retreat into the vents, yet he continued to scrabble and claw at whatever thoughts came. He knew that rogue missile would’ve been easy to handle and he told the other this, but they chided him; they urged him to take a break. Bruce sided against him claiming the stress made his work suffer; yet, it wasn’t work which now suffered. He didn’t like abandoning issues, but the promise of a day off, a day away from the cape was seductive. A day spent with Dick, who heard of this brief reprieve and couldn’t be stopped from racing to Metropolis. Just one day.

A no-win scenario wasn’t something he believed in but there were no viable options, nothing he could do. Even with the remaining Bat-clan’s aide from Gotham, Clark had to come alone and without foreign communication – the LexCorp frequency jammers assured that.

Superman closed his eyes for a second. “I’m sorry.” Those words weren’t meant for Lex. “But I can’t do that.”

There was no mirth and no victory on Lex’s face – not yet. “Well that is unfortunate, especially for your partner in crime. But don’t make me the bad guy.” He ordered, “Tell him yourself.”

Dick could hear the wind, a pleasant change from his throbbing ears. He felt the mother of all headaches coming; also the father, brother, sister, and mailman of all headaches*. The rubbing of his hand’s heels to his eyes couldn’t cure their itch. Blinking, he tossed the pillow onto the bed. The world was hot: Sizzling to touch, burning to feel, and singeing to see. A rose flush rooted down his spine and blossomed on his cheeks. Its thorns pricked at his fingers and the sweet scent lingered on his breath. The petals chafed with each brush of flesh-clinging suit against his dewy skin and thickened his tongue into velvet. His left foot bounced and tapped while he breathed through a tight stem-throat. This blooming was caused by the drugs; he knew this, yet knowledge couldn’t calm the second heartbeat between his legs and under his jock.

“Nightwing?”

The bass in Clark’s voice sent his southern pulse lurching. Dick bit his lip, choking down a moan. Glancing down, he asked, “Have you two made up yet?” His speech slurred but he couldn’t swallow the dryness in his mouth.

Clark’s pause was his answer. “Not quite.”

Dick tousled his hair and hung his head between his knees, embarrassed for them to see how affected he was. “Mind speeding this up?” He steadied his breathing while the tingling in his fingers crept to his elbows. “I’ve got a date tonight.”

Lex heard the exertion in Nightwing’s voice, the palpable vulnerability. He could taste it, blood in Lex’s shark infested ocean. The original plan of coaxing the Kryptonian to his demise took a hairpin turn. Superman giving himself over - that warmed the cockles of his dominating heart - but the idea of him begging Lex to destroy him was a more arousing thought – one he was willing to manipulate a drugged captive to obtain. Crippling the arrogant clown with his own libido and rage at seeing the object of his sexual desires being provoked by the man he must loathe would perfect his plot. His nemesis would hide behind the falsehood that his complacency was based in a pathetic sense of camaraderie and omit the jealousy stirrings of salacity. But, he could accept that because the people who mattered were the ones who knew the truth.

He blocked the hologram’s view into his chamber. After checking the toxicity levels, he unlocked the entrance to the cell. The door slid open with a hiss. He stepped into the room aware of the gazes of suspicion and dazed concern. His foot nudged the stack of dishware into the room from where he came. With hands rested behind his waist, he blocked the closing doorway from Nightwing who shivered as he stood. When the door locked he approached, noticing the other’s calves braced against the bed’s side. He fixated on the blank stare of the mask and the telling grimace below it.

“Don’t,” Clark warned.

Lex stood beside Nightwing who drifted into a readied stance, wavering. Grabbing Nightwing’s wrist, he hissed, “Sit down.” Dick grasped the attacking hand, but there was no strength in his grip. Lex wrenched him onto the bed. Confused, Dick sprawled across the sheets, groping for something on his chest. “Your suit’s electrical defenses were disabled,” Lex assured. “The intern had quite the shock.”

Dick paused his tapping and frowned. He knew his outfit was compromised yet he’d forgotten. It was exhausting to recall anything. Speaking was a fight, breathing was a battle, and thinking was a war. The tickling nerves edged onto his torso, stinging his lungs. Nightwing’s sluggish actions proved his neuron’s misfiring. At the dip of the mattress Dick rocked up, but fell onto a propped arm - the will to resist draining with his rapid pulse. Lex reached and curled his fingers around the muddle hero’s collar. Nightwing fought to keep upright as he was pulled off the sheets. He was tugged to Lex who studied his pained twitches beneath the mask. Dick flinched as Lex’s bruising grip cinched his jaw, lips jerking in a violent exhale of held breath and cheek jumping at the brush of a thumb against his chin.

“Marvelous,” Lex murmured, bringing Nightwing’s lips closer to his own. The hot, desperate breath curled against his face. It was a velvet glove of challenge, a feeble slap on his skin, which lead him deeper into his darkened will’s labyrinth. This masked marauder had control: His panting was erratic, sporadic, and rebellious but not desperate enough, not wild enough. He had control and Lex yearned to rend it from him. The gaping maw of surrender, devouring Nightwing’s quaking mentality, crumbled closer – an earth which heaved beneath him, churning and collapsing, mimicking his contracting chest. 


End file.
